


Weekends

by Kristylee



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Drugs, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:18:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristylee/pseuds/Kristylee
Summary: Tooth rotting fluff ahead!





	Weekends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@deeker on twitter](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40deeker+on+twitter).



They've made a ritual of it, this meeting on Saturday nights. Gal walks to Tristan's after dinner with his grandmother, and the two of them get as high as humanly possible together and share conspiracy theories about the government, alien existence, and swap cookie recipes. It's been two months of this date. Eight Saturday nights spent together. And Gal wants something more.

Tristan is older, sure but he's on the same level with Galahad. They share a connection unlike anything Gal has ever known. 

They met, of all places, at a farmers market. Tristan was buying a coke and a sandwich from a local diner that set up to rouse some business when Gal saw him. Lips wrapped loosely around the top of the bottle, hair hanging in his eyes. He was ruggedly handsome and Gal felt it instantly - a need to speak to him.

“Uh hi,” Gal ventured. “I'm...I'm Gal.”

Tristan smirked but nodded. “Tristan.” He took a big bite of his sandwich. What can I do for you, Gal?”

His accent hurt Gal's insides. Twisted them up in boy scout knots. Galahad shifted his basket of flowers from hip to hip.

“Would you like a lilac?”

Tristan leaned close to look in the basket. He smelled like weed and cologne and sugar.

“How much?”

Tristan bought one and tucked the stem in his flannel pocket so that it sprayed out, full and lovely in his chest.

To this day, as a joke, Tristan calls Galahad his little lilac. Mostly its murmured in the space between their lips when they're through their first joint and making out on Tristan's couch, limbs tangled and numb. 

Gal always laughs, because everything is funny when he’s high. And Tristan pushes the boy's curls away from his eyes and says, “You are so baked right now, little lilac.”

For eight Saturdays, Gal has gotten close proximity to Tristan and his scent and body and eyes and it amazes him to no end. But this Saturday is different. He pulls himself into Tristan's lap, light headed and red and whispers, “I think I love you, T.”

Tristan groans, but it's not an unhappy sound. He holds the boy's face in his huge palms and kisses him chaste and tidy on the lips. His eyes search Gal's face for a lie or a smile or “just kidding” but none of that is there. He presses their heads together, bites his lip.

Gal holds his breath and it makes him dizzy. He runs his fingers through Tristan's messy mane and kisses his forehead. Inhales weed and cologne and sugar. 

“I think I love you, too, little lilac.”

Gal smiles enough to hurt his cheeks and holds Tristan close, calm and happy. He thinks about telling his grandmother he's in love. He thinks of cookies in the cabinet in the kitchen and of Tristan and their Saturday night ritual becoming so much more next week and the week after.


End file.
